In the Time of the Dragonborn
by seventhstatic
Summary: The adventures of Dryn the Dragonborn continue. A sequel and continuation of "The First Month," this story follows OC Dryn, the Bosmer Dragonborn, as she struggles to survive in an increasingly hostile Skyrim. Introducing: OC Circe, the Archmage of Winterhold.
1. A Not So Chance Meeting

Dryn now knew the name of her true enemy: Alduin, the great, black dragon and the Eater of Worlds. The ancient terror who devoured the souls of the dead, who wreaked havoc and destruction upon the living, and the very being who would bring about the end of the world. It was no easy task that had been given to her, destined to be the Dragonborn and the only person in all of Tamriel able to defeat the monstrosity that had surfaced from ages before. It was in a different lifetime that she was just Dryn, the unrenowned Bosmer living, hunting, and only worrying about herself. One year in Skyrim, and she had become a completely different person. Now, for better or for worse, she was the Dovahkiin and the fate of Skyrim, and all of Tamriel, lay in her hands.

With her husband, the ex-werewolf Farkas, at her side and with the aid of the Companions and her faithful housecarl, Lydia; she had spent the last six months honing her thu'um. She spent her time hunting down words of power and defeating the dragons that often guarded them, and she was beginning to truly live up to her title as Dovahkiin. She was frequently recognized across Skyrim both as a dragonslayer and as a loyal agent of Ulfric Stormcloak. Though she was still learning to master her Voice, there were very few people alive that could stand against her rapidly developing power. Only the Greybeards and the dragons themselves had strength comparable to hers.

However, all the dragons whose souls she had taken into herself were only practice. Each battle, each victory, each wound and lesson learned led her ever closer to her true nemesis. Alduin was the reason she had been born, the reason she came to Skyrim, the very purpose to her being alive. She would defeat him, she swore to herself, or she would die trying.

It was an intense love of Skyrim that had led her to this conclusion. She could have given up, as soon as she learned the gravity of the situation; she could have fled as far from this snowy land as she could and likely lived a quiet, happy life long before the black dragon devoured all the beauty of the world. Giving up was not in her nature, though, and Skyrim and its people had shown her a love and belonging that she had never expected. She believed in the nords, and the stormcloaks, and the very nature of the people that carved out an existence in this harsh country. Dryn had come to love them and she refused to abandon them in their time of need.

For the time being , she, Farkas, and Lydia were at Breezehome in Whiterun, having just returned from being away for nearly a month. They had killed four dragons and had met their first elder dragon. Paarthurnax , the ancient dragon who lived at the Throat of the World had warned Dryn that stronger, older dovah would be drawn to the increasing power of her Voice. "Good," she had said then without a trace of fear. "It will save me the trouble of hunting them down." Dryn thought back on her arrogant threat and she wondered now, with a new flicker of apphrension, just how powerful a dragon could get. The elder dragon had nearly stretched the three warriors to their limits, even though they had faced many such fights and were fast becoming expert dragonslayers. Only Dryn's now complete shout of Unrelenting Force had managed to keep the beast off balance long enough to turn the tide of the battle to their favour. If they had trouble with an elder dragon, Alduin would surely tear them to pieces. Dryn had to become stronger. The obsession had now become a necessity.

Adrenaline had been coursing through her veins most of the night and she had not slept at all. Farkas and Lydia has both slumped into their respective beds, glad to be home; but the Dragonborn, though she shared in their exhaustion, could not shut her mind off long enough to close her eyes and rest. She had not even bothered going to bed.

She was sitting by the fire, her skin crawling, as her brain dwelt on dragons, war, and the end of times. Having let her dark hair out of the simple plaits she usually kept it in, she was looking the part of the wild elf she was at heart. It was a bit of a tangled mess around her head, framing her brown skin with its greenish hues, her hair almost as dark in the dim light as her black eyes. Every few minutes she would brush back a rogue strand that threatened to impede her vision.

Dryn was clutching her elven bow as if a dragon would burst through her door any minute, but her eyes were unfocused and staring blankly into the flames. It was hours before dawn but she wanted to get back to her mission, idle waiting was not something she had developed the patience for. In her mind's eye, she kept seeing the massive black wings that haunted her dreams, and it was hard to sit by doing nothing when some poor soul in Skyrim might have their life extinguished at any moment. Worse yet, she had been forced by her loved ones to agree to staying home in Whiterun for at least a few days. "To repair and recharge," was Farkas' reasoning. "To sleep!" was Lydia's. Besides, as soon as they had returned, the joy with which they had been greeted by their friends had made Dryn feel guilty that she had kept them away for so long. For a few days, she had promised, regardless of how strong her desire to get back to the fight was.

Still, that didn't mean that she had to be literally cooped up inside the whole time, especially if she couldn't sleep. Snapping out of her self-inflicted trance, she leapt from her seat and slung her bow over her shoulder, promptly leaving the quiet of her home.

Dryn was only lightly armored in a leather tunic, having, again, been forced to relinquish her standard gear to be repaired by Eorlund Gray-Mane; but the leather was enough to stave off the cold of a night in Skyrim. It likely would not hold up well against any dragonkind, but it would due in a pinch against bandits or street thugs if it came right down to it. With that said, she did not really anticipate a fight. The streets of Whiterun were just as quiet as the walls of Breezehome had been. The night was clear, only a rare passing cloud marred the view of the shimmering stars; and the people were rarer than the clouds. Not that Dryn was expecting to see or talk to anyone, but at least it would have been something to say that she was not the only one out wandering around in the dead of night.

Turning her feet up the hill towards the market, she toyed with the idea of sitting outside the temple of Kynareth with the Gildergreen. It was a long shot, but sometimes the ancient tree had a calming influence on her, as if it were a small piece of Valenwood placed there just for her. Ultimately, she decided that would be the best use of her time rather than secretly leaving the city to find some trouble to quash. She headed forward with a dedicated destination in mind, and accepted the quiet notion of meditating through the night.

As she walked, her thoughts turned inward once again. She was so focused on the churning thoughts in her brain, that she was oblivious to the fact that she was not alone when she arrived at the still-flowering Gildergreen. Nor did she notice that the stranger watched her arrival closely, a pair of glittering blue eyes following her every movement like a predator stalking prey from the cloak of tall grass.

Dryn sat herself at the base of the tree, favouring the seat of soft dirt and brown leaves over the nearby benches. She lowered herself into a cross-legged position and leaned her head back into the solid bark with a heavy sigh. As she did so, however, she finally spotted the Breton woman sitting on the ledge where that priest of Talos usually stood. In the shadow of Dragonsreach, the woman was hardly noticeable, sitting perfectly still with her hands together on her crossed knees.

Shocked out of her thoughts with the sudden revelation that she was in the company of another person, Dryn's black eyes met the stranger's across the distance in the darkness. The woman`s face broadened into a smile. Dryn could not be certain if the low light was playing a trick on her eyes, but to her, the smile did not seem exactly friendly. The shadows cast across the woman's face made it appear more like a wolfish grin, the lines around her mouth deep and dark in the gloom. The stranger said something, but the words were carried away by a sudden, chill breeze. Dryn shrugged to indicate that she didn't hear, offering no words of greeting of her own. Sliding from her perch in a fluid movement, the woman came closer until only the small stream was between them. For the span of a handful of breaths, the only noise in the night was the trickling chime of the water over tiny pebbles.

"Would you like your bow enchanted?"

Dryn could see her face more clearly now that she was closer, the moonlight casting a kinder glow on the stranger. Her pale skin was clear of any wrinkles, but her bloodshot blue eyes carried a great many years behind them; there was also a series of small, jagged scars on her right cheek from the cheekbone to the line of her jaw. The breton's hair was a slick, dark auburn, braided tightly down her left shoulder and hanging just passed the crook of her arm. Seeing how it was free of any grey, Dryn guessed that this stranger was one of the lucky few who seemed to escape the ravages of time as they aged. She might not have looked old, but Dryn would wager that she was long past any claim to youthfulness.

"I'm sorry?" Dryn said dumbly. Enchanting was a very strange thing to be offering, let alone to a stranger in the middle of the night.

The woman titled her head slightly to the side, her smile frozen in place. "Your bow. Would you like it to be enchanted?"

"No, thank you," Dryn responded after inhaling and exhaling slowly. Dryn brought her head forward from where it had been resting to study her guest more closely. There weren't many people in Whiterun with any inclination towards magic and even fewer with the skills of an enchanter. The last grace the city with such an ability was Farengar Secret-Fire, who had been arrested and imprisoned with the rest of Balgruuf the Greater's staff after the Battle for Whiterun. A random person able to enchant was rare enough, but in Whiterun, this small Breton woman was sorely out of place.

"I don't charge very much," she said, her tone placid and gracious. She spread her palms, as if showing that she was no threat. "I simply enjoy the practice."

Dryn wondered if this woman had been hired by Jarl Vignar as the new mage of Dragonsreach. It would at least explain her presence in the city, though it did not quite explain why she was offering enchanting services in the midnight hours. "No, I'm alright. I like my bow the way it is." She was not refusing just for the sake of it. Dryn's bow was the last heirloom she had to remember her family by, and it was far too valuable a possession to risk a poor enchantment being placed on it.

"Fair enough." The woman bowed her head in parting. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Just as she began to turn away, Dryn found herself overwhelmed with a flash of curiosity. She blurted out: "Who are you?"

The woman stopped mid-step. She carefully placed her forward foot back on the ground, and turned only her chin towards Dryn. The smile had not faded even slightly, and her eyes were all the more intense when she met the dragonborn's gaze once more. "My name is Circe," she said, without any further explanation. Her lips parted just slightly, baring a set of small, white teeth.

Dryn could find no further questions to ask, and Circe the stranger offered no more information; the dragonborn was forced to resign to watching as the mage carefully climbed the steps towards Dragonsreach. A memory struck her then, once Circe was just beyond the last step towards the grand building, and Dryn realized what had been bothering her ever since she had laid eyes on the woman.

Her robes were blue. A dark, shimmering blue to compliment her eyes, the colour of the sky as it shows the first signs of darkening into evening. A blue that ignored the fact that it was night time and there was no daylight to have them so clearly lit and colourful.

She had seen the effect only once before, six months ago, the night after a dragon had attacked the very city. There was nothing dangerous about the memory and, it would seem, nothing inherently dangerous about this Breton named Circe. She was clearly a mage, but that alone was not reason enough to be suspicious. Still, there was an unsettled feeling in her gut that left Dryn dissatisfied with the encounter. She leaned her head against the tree again, but she did not close her eyes and the peace of meditation did not come to her.

_Circe_. Perhaps she had heard the name somewhere before, but no recollection came to mind immediately. Dryn met so many people in her life and her travels that it was becoming a serious challenge keeping them all straight in her mind. Often, she relied on Lydia and her journal to keep the basic facts in order. So and so needed such and such. This person's daughter is missing, and this person thinks they've stumbled on a dwemer ruin. A rogue mage travelling Skyrim offering discount enchanting services? She was almost certain that she had heard of no such thing.

Still, there was no reason for it to bother her so much. What difference did it make that the mage had conjured some way of glowing in the dark? There were spells that did that, Dryn told herself in a half-hearted attempt to convince her to let it go. The back of her mind nagged at her though. The woman _hadn't_ been glowing. She had not cast light on any of her surroundings. Instead, it was as if the darkness simply wasn't touching the fabric of her clothes. Some enchantment then, Dryn settled on the idea. If the woman could enchant, she must have enchanted her clothing and the effect was causing the unnatural appearance.

Dryn caught herself and realized that she was obsessing. She shook her head sharply then took a deep, calming breath. Placing her palms firmly on her knees, she closed her eyes. The dragonborn had far greater matters to obsess about than some unknown mage with shiny clothes. Dryn assured herself that in the morning, the whole event would be gone and forgotten.


	2. A Witch Among Wolves

In the daylight hours, Whiterun came alive with activity. People, noises and smells overwhelmed the senses. Breads, meats and fresh vegetables were heaped into their respective market stalls and it seemed every resident was out peddling their wares and cheerily greeting one another under the warm gaze of the sunshine. The market was undeniably crowded; an unspoken consensus had obviously occurred among all of the villagers that today was the day to get all of their shopping done. Even the fabled dragonborn was out and about, when she usually avoided such large throngs of people.

Dryn, with Lydia in tow, had just paid a visit to Eorlund the blacksmith to check up on the progress of their repairs. Eorlund, busy and sweating over his forge, had promptly shooed both of them away under threat that he would work all the slower the more he was bothered with dragonborn-related distractions. The man had enough on his plate with the Stormcloaks constantly bothering him instead of Adrianne Avenicci, even for the smallest of requests. The Imperial woman was practically an outcast in her hometown. Even Dryn visited her more and more infrequently, since she was the reason that Adrianne's father was imprisoned. It was difficult for a friendship to continue gracefully after that.

Dryn had been fairly certain that her armor would not be ready let alone the armor of her faithful followers – not unless Eorlund had worked through the night which he was never keen on doing. However, the sooner it was ready the sooner she could return to the field and the ceaseless hunt for dragons and power. She had no particular qualms with keeping tabs on the repairs, despite Eorlund's insistence that she leave him alone to work.

They returned, empty-handed, down the path to Jorrvaskr. Farkas had said that he would be spending the day at the mead hall, catching up on the fights that he had missed out on and regaling the others with his own stories of adventure. As the pair came around the bend to the back entrance, they found only Aela as a solitary sentinel, lounging with her boots up on the table and sipping a large mug of mead even so early in the day.

"Hail, Aela," Dryn greeted with a smirk. She had hammered out a foundation for their relationship early on, with their shared love of hunting in the wilds. Aela had been a close friend ever since Dryn had joined the Companions, but after the whole matter with the Silver Hand, a lifelong friendship had been established. In the end, they had taken different paths on the issue of werewolves, but Aela could not hold a grudge against a fellow Companion, let alone Dryn whom she had a great deal of respect for.

The huntress had been monitoring their approach, only just now smiling when Dryn spoke. She wasn't one for the warmest of greetings. "Dryn. Lydia." She raised her mug slightly. "How was the hunt?"

"Successful," Dryn replied, as straightforward as she could be. Aela only cared for the thorough details when stories were being told around the fire in the mead hall; for the rest of the time, the blunt facts would do.

There was no jug of mead at the table to be passed around, but Aela gestured that they should help themselves to the food. It was mostly bread and cheese with the odd apple here and there, but Dryn was raised under the strict rules of the Green Pact. In her adult years, being far from Valenwood, she did not adhere to the rules that she had grown up with. Ultimately, though, she preferred to eat only meat and would often refrain from eating at all if there wasn't an option. Lydia, on the other hand, was Nord through and through, picking up a healthy chunk of bread and silently regretting a lack of available ale.

"How many?" Aela asked, her tone suddenly changing from the lightness of her initial greeting. The huntress was fairly subtle in her expressions, especially when it came to Dryn. She expected the other hunter to be able to pick up on contextual cues otherwise hidden from the general public, and was not always clear on when she was doing so.

"Four. And a big one too, this time," Lydia replied, oblivious to the change in mood. Despite not being a Companion herself, she had been accompanying her thane since her very first encounter with the famous troupe and had grown accustomed to a more casual atmosphere amongst them. She had been given an honorary place at the hall, as the unflinchingly loyal follower of their favourite elf.

Dryn met Aela's wild eyes and she nodded, leaving the question and the answer unspoken. Four dragons in one month was a lot, and they didn't even have to travel very far. There were so many new rumours of attacks all around Skyrim, so many glimpses in the far distance of a great, hulking mass, that Dryn simply did not have the time to keep up with all of them. The attacks were increasing and Aela had noticed. More dragons were awakening and the ones that were waking now were even stronger. It was going to get harder and harder to kill them but Dryn did not say any of this.

Aela stared at her friend for a moment and then she shrugged. She gleaned what she could from Dryn's silence and decided it was best to move on to a new topic. "Weather's good today."

Dryn accepted the distraction gratefully; turning her face toward the training ground where the daylight had set all of the equipment alit with a soft glow. "The sun is nice."

Focus darting between the thane and the huntress, Lydia was bewildered that the conversation had degraded so drastically from dragons to the weather. She could only assume that she had missed something and took another mouthful of bread to muffle her confusion.

"I don't like mages," Aela said firmly, out of the blue. She was glaring off into the distance at the mountainous horizon.

Returning her attention to her friend's face, Dryn studied for signs of what Aela was talking about, but the huntress gave nothing away. "They can be trouble," she agreed slowly, curious as to what exactly she was agreeing with.

"More trouble than they're worth. I don't care what they offer." Aela's eyes narrowed, as if she were prepared to burn a hole straight through the far mountain to its other side.

"What are you talking about?" Dryn inquired, a frown just starting to form.

Aela just shook her head, then yelled towards the closed door. "Farkas! Get out here! Bring mead!"

"Aela-" Dryn pressed, but Aela shook her head sharply again.

The door to Jorrvaskr swung open mere moments later, burly Farkas appearing with four large pitchers of mead – two in each hand. His face broke into a wide beam when he saw whose company he would be joining. He set the jugs down and both Lydia and Aela picked one up; Lydia pouring one for her thane, and Aela refilling her own before pouring another for Farkas.

"Hello wife," Farkas greeted. He planted a kiss on Dryn's temple before settling into the seat next to her. It left the seating of the table unbalanced, Aela alone on one side, but he didn't seem to notice or didn't care. He slid an arm around his wife's waist, the way he only did when they were safe in the city. They could never really be close wearing their armor in the wilds. Dryn was rarely receptive to affection when they were adventuring anyways, he had quickly discovered, so he took every advantage when they were at home. He wove his fingers into the leather laces at the side of her dress and was pleased when she moved a little closer to fit more comfortably into the curve of his body. "It's a fine day," he said to the others with a happy grin.

"Hmph," replied Aela.

Dryn said nothing, but returned his smile and gave a kiss of her own to his lips. Lydia just stared at him like he had turned into a snake. To her, the only thing three of the most renowned warriors in Skyrim could find to talk about was the weather. She decided she had to put a stop to it. "What's this about mages?"

Farkas' smile faded as both he and Aela sent Lydia a shared frown. Dryn, also lost when it came to this particular topic, glanced at each face in turn. She wanted to know just as much as Lydia did what was going on.

Aela, however, presented no answers and instead directed another question to Farkas. "Are they still talking?"

The big man nodded, taking a gulp of his mead.

For a moment, everyone was silent, the answered questions hanging in the air like so many rain clouds ready to burst. Neither Farkas or Aela seemed ready to spill the facts and enlighten the table, so finally Dryn had enough of waiting. "What the hell is going on?" The very second that she finished speaking however, and long before anyone had the opportunity to reply, the door to Jorrvaskr slammed open with a jarring thud. All of the eyes at the table were drawn to the two figures who emerged from the doorway.

The first was Vilkas, Dryn's brother-in-law. She shared a mutual tension with him due to past indiscretions that everyone involved chose to collectively ignore. He had a wide grin on his face that was eerily similar to the one Farkas had worn seconds before. Materializing at his side from the comparative darkness of the indoors, was the Breton, Circe, that Dryn had met the previous evening. She had her hands clasped in front of her, giving an outward impression of modesty in front of the gathered warriors; on her face was a pleasant, welcoming expression much the same as she had had the night before. Seeing her again, though, sent a strange chill along the skin of Dryn's back. With her husband's arm around her, and a gentle warmth from the sun in the sky, a spiteful cold crept along her flesh causing the fine hairs to stand up on the back of her neck and arms.

In the shadow of the roof of Jorrvaskr, the mage seemed to faintly glow. Her auburn hair alive with facets of light and a gust of air felt by no one else; if it had not been still tied down in a long braid, it might have been waving all around her face like a dark, red halo. She was wearing an elegantly plain dress, an unassuming beige, perfectly fitted to her with no obvious embellishments to make her stand out amongst the common rabble.

"Ah, here's someone that everyone should meet!" Vilkas exclaimed as the pair approached the table. He waved his arm in a grand gesture, a kind-hearted teasing that grated at Dryn more than it should have. "Circe, meet Dryn the Dragonborn. Our very own legend."

The Breton was staring right at her again, forcing a civil smile out of Dryn. "We've met," she said, the words lifeless in her mouth.

Circe's lips were perfectly curled, the studied smile of an educated woman; her eyes blinking only once languidly as she held Dryn's cynical gaze. The whites around her irises were even more bloodshot in the light of day; they were the eyes of someone deprived of restful sleep, someone who'd been taking too much skooma, someone under far too much strain. Yet, she did not look otherwise tired and skooma was not a popular choice among mages. Dryn could see now that the flesh of her eyelids was bruised as well, the tiny vessels as ruptured and damaged as the eyes themselves.

"Dovahkiin," purred Circe, hardly louder than a whisper.

"You know each other?" Vilkas asked as he poured two mugs of mead, handing the extra to his guest. He sat himself next to Aela, either ignorant to or intentionally overlooking the expression of surprise exchanged between her and Farkas. It was not customary to share drink with outsiders when in Jorrvaskr. It was a privilege and an honour to be accepted amongst the Companions, not a right given to strangers.

"No," Dryn said, which was true. She knew nothing of real value about the other woman, save that she was a mage and an enchanter. And now, perhaps a fast friend of Vilkas. Dryn would deny if pressed feeling the sting of jealousy when she saw the two of them together; Vilkas had been standing unusually close to this newcomer with her carefully styled hair and impeccably clean dress.

Reflecting on what she herself was wearing, Dryn admitted silently that she could have at least worn a clean outfit, instead of a dress and tunic she had picked up off the floor of her bedroom. Maybe she could have combed her hair before pinning it back. As soon as she caught herself comparing the two of them, she was forced to remind herself that her loving husband was right next to her, literally holding her as close to him as he could. Besides, she told herself, she was the god damn Dragonborn. Everyone around her should appreciate that she was not currently covered in blood and dirt, as was her customary apparel.

"We met by chance last evening," Circe explained politely in her low, soft voice. She had not touched her drink and had yet to join the others at the table. "I believe we were both out for a walk to clear our heads." She left the remaining explanation open for Dryn to elaborate on or ignore as she saw fit.

The Bosmer offered nothing, leaving the moment long enough for an awkward silence to fill the gaps. Before the break in conversation could become unbearable, Vilkas cleared his throat and waved his hand at the empty space to his left. "Join us!"

The mage lowered her blue eyes to the tankard in her hands; she pondered the offer briefly before slowly setting the mug down on the table. "No... I don't believe I can." Her now free hands returned to holding themselves stiffly in front of her. "I'm afraid I must go. Thank you for the invitation."

She directed her parting words to Dryn, and nodded respectfully in her direction before taking her leave, though the dragonborn stubbornly refused to acknowledge that she was being addressed. There was a sick feeling in the pit of Dryn's stomach, an uncomfortable wariness that she could not shake.

"You could have been nicer," Vilkas said, his eyebrows raised in a condescending manner.

Aela swallowed her mouthful before scoffing. "You could have kept it in your pants!"

"What was she doing here?" Dryn demanded with more of an edge in her voice than she had meant to put in. Farkas looked at her in surprise at her sudden anger.

Vilkas shrugged tersely, his pride bristling at Aela's comment. "Enchanting services. Alchemy, too."

"Who is she?" Pressing the issue, Dryn knew her suspicions would not be laid to rest without more information. If Vilkas knew something, she wanted it out of him.

Aela now also regarded Dryn curiously, wondering along with the rest of the table why the stranger had upset her so much. "Maybe you should tell us," she said to Dryn. "Is there something we need to know about?"

Frustrated that the attention had turned back to her, the elf clenched her jaw. Breathing sharply through her nose, she attempted to organize her thoughts. "No, I-" She had nothing to go on, no valid reason to be so apprehensive. Technically, the only thing the mage had done wrong was make her feel uncomfortable and that was hardly reason enough to ostracize her. "I just don't trust her."

"You'd think she was an Imperial, the way you're acting," Vilkas quipped, forcing some humour back into his voice. It was a feeble attempt to bring the mood back to a lighter state. "Did dear Ulfric tell you to watch out for strange mages?"

"That's it!" Lydia abruptly interjected. The collective attention of the gathered Companions now shifted to her. Placing her hands a few inches apart on the table, she looked to be trying to physically give shape to the thought that had come to her. "You said her name was Circe?"

Vilkas nodded slowly, raising a single eyebrow this time and adding a slight narrowing of his grey eyes.

"My thane," the housecarl continued earnestly after this confirmation. "It was itching at me since he said it: I've heard the name before. When we were last in Winterhold – do you remember the mage staying at the inn?"

It was Dryn's turn to nod, though she hesitated a moment before doing so. She was forced to reach some months back into her memory. "Vaguely."

"He said there was a new Arch-Mage at the College," Lydia lifted her hands an inch, and set them down with a snap. "Some Breton from Solitude."

Solitude. The capital city of Skyrim and the home of Jarl Elisif, who had become a widow by the actions of Ulfric Stormcloak. The Imperials supported her claim to be High Queen, just as they refuted Ulfric's to High King. The city was the base of operations for all the movements of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim; it was the heartland of Ulfric's, and therefore Dryn's, enemies.

"My thane," Lydia insisted. "He said her name was Circe."

A moment of silence descended on the group again while Dryn absorbed the information, this pause a great deal longer and more tense than the last. Of course the witch was from Solitude, Dryn thought to herself bitterly. If not an outright Imperial agent, it was almost a guarantee the woman had to be a supporter of the Empire or she would have surely been driven out of the capital city by now. Or executed as many had been. There was no reason to trust her now.

Farkas was the first to speak, able to only offer a small platitude. "That doesn't mean she's an Imperial."

"But the mages don't have many friends in Skyrim," Aela said quickly, referring to the College as a whole. Magic users weren't kindly looked upon as it was, but after the mess at Winterhold and half the city being swallowed by the sea, mages had a great deal more enemies than they did allies. Aela was inclined to agree with Lydia's apparent conclusion – if the Breton was indeed the Arch-Mage of the College, it was highly unlikely she would be remotely friendly to the Stormcloaks.

"There are other mages close to Elisif, as well," Dryn added, feeling the pit of her stomach grow heavier.

Vilkas snorted gruffly. "That's the business of the Stormcloaks, not the Companions."

"Brother – "Farkas began but he was immediately cut off.

"No! This city has seen of enough of this damned war," Vilkas said this with a plenty of accusation, and everyone knew to whom it was directed. He set his tankard down with force, splashing its contents over the edge of the cup. "I don't want to hear it."

In an attempt to prevent tensions from rising further, Dryn quickly cut off further protests from anyone else by agreeing with her brother-in-law. "He's right. That's fine," she said firmly. "I'll concern myself with it later."

Lydia opened her mouth to object, but her thane lifted one hand to cue her to stop. The dragonborn had made her decision and it was final. Dryn reached out and grabbed a pitcher off the table, holding it out towards Vilkas in a silent offer.

He hesitated only a second before accepting, extending his tankard to her.


End file.
